I Believe in John Watson
by Alana Core
Summary: It was one year, two months, and seventeen days post-death of the great consulting detective. And it was one year, two months, seventeen days, fourteen hours, three minutes, and 36… 37… 38… seconds since his assumed death. Will be continued.
1. John

John Watson lay on the couch of the flat in 221B Baker Street, snoring slightly with a book opened up on his face. He wore his usual jumper and jeans, but was barefoot, something he'd picked up from Sherlock. It was Saturday, in the spring. The window was open, letting in the sounds of London and the smell of rain. A cool breeze wafted in, ruffling John's hair and making him shiver. He sighed and curled up on his side, the book falling lightly to the ground. The tired army doctor didn't even stir. He looked peaceful while sleeping, more at peace than he'd ever been since Sherlock Holmes jumped off the edge of St Bart's Hospital.

It was one year, two months, and seventeen days post-death of the great consulting detective. John had been trying as hard as he could to get re-adjusted to life without him. He did most of what he used to; he woke up, he ate and slept and went to work. He made money and he went out to the shop. He even tried to go out on dates. Not that any of his relationships lasted long.

He didn't want to leave Baker Street, not yet at least. He liked being able to walk around the flat and see all of Sherlock's things, pretend he was there, wish that he would come back. But he knew that he wasn't coming home. So he went about his life as normally as he could. He missed Sherlock, and he missed his life. This new life without the high-functioning sociopath was boring, uninteresting. Something inside him longed for the insanity and the danger of being with Sherlock Holmes again. He'd accepted the fact, though, that he was dead. For good.

Having to go to work every day, John had become rather good at hiding his emotions. He could almost imagine the smirk Sherlock's face when (if) he ever discovered the emotional range that John had created for himself. Emotional restraint. Just like Sherlock. He had to do it, though. Everything reminded him of Sherlock now, from the IV bags to the syringes at work.

He sighed in his sleep again, murmuring Sherlock's name into the pillow, curling up tighter and burying his face further. He started awake and opened his eyes, inhaling deeply, almost able to smell the scent of Sherlock in the fabric.

A knock at the front door came and John sat up, sighing deeply and rubbing at his face in distress. It took him a minute, twisting to crack his back, and then groping around for his cane, trying to stand. He snatched it up and used it as a lever to help himself up, and then worked on walking down the stairs, clicking noisily on the ground.

Another insistent knock at the door made John sigh again. "Hold on!" he shouted, trying to concentrate on getting down the stairs. Take a step. Move your head on the railing, then lean on the cane so you can take another step.

He finally reached the door, unlocking it and throwing it open. Mycroft Holmes stood at the door, umbrella swinging in hand and a briefcase in the other. "Hello, Doctor Watson," he said, smiling without humour.

"Hello, Mycroft," John said, looking a little surprised. He hadn't seen Sherlock's brother since a few weeks after Sherlock's death. "Is something wrong?" he asked, noting the look in Mycroft's eye.

Mycroft smiled another uncomfortable-looking smile. "May I enter?"

John nodded. "Yeah, come on in," he muttered, stepping back to let Mycroft through.

After watching John struggle up the stairs for a few minutes, Mycroft was situated in Sherlock's old chair (it hadn't moved a single inch from where Sherlock had left it) and John sitting across from him. John licked his lips nervously and waited for Mycroft to continue.

The government official opened the briefcase and took out a thick file, handing it to John. John stared at the label on the folder, dumbfounded. He looked up at Sherlock's brother, then down at the fire. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, frowning, reading of the label. "Why are you giving me a file on Sherlock?" he asked, feeling a lump in his throat, flicking through the profile, not waiting for Mycroft's answer.

There were old documents and letters and notes, written in Sherlock's handwriting:

The woman: an obvious dominatrix. Intriguing.

Mycroft keeps bothering me about his stupid government cases. I swear, the next time he comes over and bothers me about it, I'm going to strangle him with dental floss.

John left today for Dublin. I wonder how long he's going to be there. I wonder if he's coming back. I wonder if he's all right. I wonder if he realises that I worry when he goes off without telling me. I worry he's not going to come back. He thinks I don't notice he's gone, but I do notice, after all.

John couldn't read any further, the tears beginning to form in his eyes, looking up at Mycroft and trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

Mycroft gestured to the file. "Continue on."

He kept going, looking at pictures now, pictures of his deceased best friend. Some pictures were with John, and some were of just Sherlock. One was of both Sherlock and John together, doubled over with laughter. It was real laughter, real smiles. And for some reason, John couldn't remember what they had been laughing at. And that hurt. A lot.

But it was the last photo. It was a picture of Sherlock, his hair cur shorter, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. He was looking around a corner, a can of spray paint in his hands. And in the bright yellow paint from the case that John had dubbed "the Blind Banker", there were five words. The file fell from John's hand and spilled onto the ground. He stared at the date on the photo. Less than a week ago.

_I BELIEVE IN JOHN WATSON. -SH_

* * *

_A/N: So, I've had this already published on a shared profile, called Dakotah Rowan. Unless you haven't noticed, I've decided to abandon that profile and re-publish all my stories back on my original. _

_Review if convenient. If inconvenient, review all the same._

_Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock or its characters. All are property of Stephen Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._


	2. Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes lay on the couch in a dingy living room in a run-down apartment in Ireland wide awake, with his fingers steepled in a calculating manner in front of his mouth. His eyes were focused on the bullet hole he'd put in the wall just a few moments before out of irritation. He was wearing unusual attire, jeans and a sweatshirt, and had slight bags under his eyes. It was Saturday, in the spring. The dirty window was open, letting in the sounds of Ireland and the smell of the rain. A cool breeze wafted in, ruffling the consulting detective's now-short hair, but he didn't move, didn't give a single reaction. He sighed heavily through his nose, trying to delete something he figured was unnecessary. He was different, quite different from who he was the day he jumped to save John's life.

It was one year, two months, seventeen days, fourteen hours, three minutes, and 36… 37… 38… seconds since his assumed death. It had been…horrifyingly simple to get readjusted to life without his tired army doctor. To life alone. Again. He'd gone into his mind palace, rummaging around through papers and documents and loose-leaf scraps to find every single piece of information about John Hamish Watson, army doctor. He'd filed them away in a cabinet, locked it up, and picketed the key. He only kept a few things close; the smell of John's jumpers straight out of the wash, the giggle John gave when Sherlock made him laugh, and the fear in John's eyes as the perpetrator of crime solving fell.

He left Fear, however, running around, tearing things down, stopping his mind processes. It made him stagger, made him close down, and sometimes even made him curl up on the bed, rocking back and forth with his hands covering his ears, blocking out the single scream of "_SHERLOCK!"_ in John's voice.

But he refused to let it cloud his mind in important instances. He created a queen; a beautiful creature of floating words, ticking bombs, nicotine patches and syringes, wearing a dress of case files and yellow 40 spray can wrappers, with bullet hole eyes, a crown of broken class and ashes, and jewelry of violin strings and cellphone buttons. She was beautiful. And the queen kept Fear on a leash, caring for it and keeping it contained. He had to keep it contained. He was nearly done. The web was almost destroyed. He had to save John. He could save John. Again. Over and over, if he had to. He must.

A cell phone rang, making the consulting detective tilt his head at a curious angle and frown. He looked at the phone, lighting up and ringing incessantly. He sighed. It continued to ring. He pushed himself off the couch with an air of distain and picked up the phone. He pressed the 'send' button and held it to his ear. He didn't speak a word.

"Sherlock Holmes," came a familiar voice, the arrogant voice of Holmes the elder. Sherlock continued not to speak, choosing to listen instead of giving away himself.

"You must return."

_No, I can't. I have to protect John. I'm doing this for John. I'm helping John. John. This is for him._

"He is not alright."

_Why are you telling me about this? Can't you protect him? Save him? Get him a new therapist, the other one is rubbish. Please._

"Sherlock –" Mycroft's voice was cut off by the rustle of air and fabric and skin, and then another voice that nearly shattered Sherlock's proverbial heart.

The voice was soft. The voice was broken. The voice was ragged and pleading and hesitant. It said miles more than the single word it spoke. It said _I miss you. Come home. _It said _I hate you, Sherlock Holmes, with every particle of my being. _It said _why would you leave me like this?_ It said _I wish that you had told me. _It said _I still believe. _

"Sher…Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head. He continued to shake his head. He felt a whimper escape his lips as Fear began its tap-tap-tapping at the walls of his skull. The voice came again, taking the broken pieces of Sherlock's glass heart and kicking them all over the place, making Fear snicker with glee.

"Why?"

A gasp, a ragged, tears-are-threatening-to-spill cry escaped, halting in his throat on its way out. _John. My dear doctor, my John, my dearest, closest friend. I am so, painfully regretful for everything I have caused you. I know why you're calling. I know that Mycroft showed you the picture. I still believe in you, my dear doctor. Don't you believe in me? I read your letters, your beautifully written letters that you leave on my grave. I read all of them. I revere you. I admire you. I adore you. I am terribly sorry. One more year. One more month. Anything. I've got two more men. Two more men to take out, to save you. _

"Please come home."

_Click._ The consulting detective thumbed the red 'end' button and exhaled.

Fear grinned a dark smile of blood and glass teeth, the face of James Moriarty and the scent of death and rust and salt. Sherlock shrank back, backing up to his bedroom, his eyes wide, the phone clutched in his hand.

"Leave me alone, "he whispered, as Fear advanced, hands in pockets.

A reptilian tongue flicked out as Fear licked its lips, staring hungrily at the pale, sunken man.

"I'm trying to _save him!"_

He took another step back, his knees hitting the bed and making him fall over. The phone fell to the floor as Fear took a hold of his head, and poured in the memories.

_"There's a head in the fridge. A bloody head!"  
"Where else was I supposed to put it?"_

"_Are you wearing any pants?"_

"…_No."_

"_Okay."_

"_Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?"_

"_We solve crimes. I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope."_

"_You…MACHINE."_

"_No. No…When we first met. When we. First. Met. You told me everything about my sister."_

"_Nobody could be that clever."_

"_You could."_

"_SHERLOCK!"_

"_Oh…God no… Jesus…"_

"_You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times that I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human…human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. I was so alone. And I owe you so much…"_

"_There's just one more thing. One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be...dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this."_

Sherlock moaned and whimpered and sobbed and screamed as the memories overtook him, sweeping him off his feet and forcing him to listen, to watch. _It's time to grow up now, John._

Fear cackled.

Sherlock rocked, back and forth, back and forth, trembling, shrieking, wailing. _JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn…_ It was horrid, a rhythmic chant in his head. It was all he wanted. He wanted John back. His fingers twitched. Desperate for a hit, to take this gut-wrenching feeling away.

He didn't look up from his panic attack as a text message came to his phone.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes. –JW_


End file.
